Gremlins, Trolls and Sexual Urges
by the0voice0from0above
Summary: Sterek AU: Stiles is pretty sure his house is infested with something. He's also pretty sure it's not your garden variety rats or termites. His dad disagrees, but when Stiles catches sight of what looks like a gremlin gnawing his underwear he decides to take action.


It was about a foot high give or take a centimetre. With the greyish, spiky hair it was sporting you could knock that up to a foot and a half. A pair of veiny eyes bulged out of its football shaped head. There wasn't a nose that Stiles could see; it was difficult to tell since half of its face was covered by the freshly chewed elastic of his boxers.

"That's right," he sang softly as he edged closer to the unsuspecting creature with his faithful bat gripped in his hands. "Keep on chewing. We'll get you back to the _Gremlins_ movie set in no time."

The squat figure wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention. It happily sawed away at his favourite Calvin Klein's, ripping off thread and gobbling it down.

On sock clad tiptoes Stiles sneaked around his bed, closer to where the thing was sitting by his bedroom door.

Tongue wedged between his teeth he raised the bat high, ready to throw his weight behind the hit but paused when something occurred to him. Were its brains going to stain the floor? Come to think of it, what about his bat? He liked his bat. What if it got stained with gremlin innards?

Before Stiles could come to a conclusion the gremlin turned and opened its tiny mouth to bare its fangs in a stringy saliva hiss.

"Holy sh—_," _cried Stiles as he hastily stepped backwards, tripped over the wheels of his computer chair and flipped over the seat. The bat flew out of his hand and torpedoed a bunch of CDs off his desk. "Urgg. . ." he groaned. His head throbbed. "Stupid creepy gremlins."

"Stiles? What are you _doing_?"

He looked up from where he was prostrate on the floor to see his dad in the doorway. A quick look at the pile of ripped up boxers told him the creature had ran off. Great. No proof. "Just. . . exercising."

"Do you even know how?"

Stiles grimaced. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, pops."

"I'm going to work. Try _not _to demolish the house while I'm gone, okay?"

"I can guarantee I will not demolish the house," he said, holding his hand up in a vow.

His dad nodded and moved to leave.

"As for the things that are currently infesting our home, I'm not so sure," said Stiles.

"Not this again." Sheriff Stilinski jabbed a finger at him. "Don't make me take you to a psychologist."

"You won't need a psychologist," Stiles called to his dad's retreating back. "You'll need a coroner to pick up my body after I've been torn to shreds by the cast of _Gremlins_!"

He heard the front door slam and huffed. Dropping into the chair at his desk, he rolled to his computer to open up Google. Stiles poked out his bottom lip in thought. What was he supposed to search for? He doubted 'creepy scaly big eyed things' would pull up many results. Definitely not anything useful. His fingers hovered over the keyboard indecisively. "Real life gremlin invasion," he said as he typed. "Ye-ep. That'll work."

The page loaded with just over 900,000 results. Unfortunately, most of the links led to pictures of guinea pigs with funky hair styles, tarsiers or speculations on whether it was possible for gremlins to exist in real life. There was, of course, information about mythological gremlins, but they were supposed to be invisible and apparently only attacked electrical equipment. Not quality underwear for men.

An hour of clicking from one link to another, drawing zero results, and a website called Hale Exterminators popped up with the tag line: _From_ _rats to unicorns - if it's invading your home, we'll kill it. _

Stiles lifted his face from where it had been mashed into his palm. "Well that sounds. . . murderous." It didn't help that the whole website was vague about details (like any self respecting serial killer would be) and had a colour scheme to match blood and entrails. Under a nice intestine-grey subheading was a list of services. Bed bugs, termites, fire ants, fleas, ticks. Everything a home owner that was suffering from invading little creatures could want. At the bottom of the long list was a note: _For special services please call for a free consultation._

Stiles could almost see the quotation marks bracketing special services. For all he knew he could have been on a website that sold termite prostitution to the freakishly inclined. He could have been looking at the work of a rat pimp.

Then again it was the closest thing he had found to getting rid of his gremlin problem.

He weighed the pros and cons of calling for a consultation. A final look at his ruined underwear was what had him stabbing the number into his cell phone and tapping his fingers on the desk impatiently while it rang.

"_Hale Exterminators. Cora speaking," _said a curt female voice.

"Uh, yeah, hi, I. . .have a problem with—" With what? He really should have planned out what he was going to say.

"_With?" _prodded Cora when the silence lingered.

"Um, I don't know."

She sighed heavily down the line. _"Do you believe something is infesting your house?" _she said in a tone that suggested it was rehearsed.

"Well, yeah, they're these –"

"_Would you like a free consultation?"_

"I guess?"

"_I'll send someone to you. What's your name and address?"_

Stiles reeled it off to her.

"_Derek will be there shortly. Thank you."_

The dial tone rang through the tiny speaker like a middle finger. "Quality customer service," he muttered.

About half an hour later the doorbell rang. He didn't know what to expect nor did he know exactly what he was going to say. He knew he was either going crazy or there really were gremlins in his house. He just had to convince this exterminator guy of it which was going to be difficult. Even his dad didn't believe him. On the other hand, he wasn't the one with a website professing he hunted unicorns for a living so, really, his claims of gremlin invasion were relatively sane in comparison.

Stiles swung the front door open to reveal six foot of sex. That was the only way to describe the guy standing on his porch. Sex incarnate. Stiles felt like a winning contestant in a game show and the host had just congratulated him with orgasmic glee that he had picked the right door. The winning door. Dark hair and stubble to match? Fuck, was it a winning door.

"Stilinski?" said the man.

Stiles blinked away the celebratory confetti and audience's cheers. "Huh?"

"Stiles Stilinski? You called about a consultation? I'm Derek." When Stiles didn't answer right away, the guy's eyebrow rose. "Hale Exterminators?"

"Uhh, yeah." Stiles cleared his throat. "Yeah. Do you want to come in?" He stepped aside to let the guy pass unable to keep his eyes from slipping up and down his body. Derek was sporting red overalls with _Hale Exterminators _printed on the back in an arch. The lettering was faded and cracked like it had been washed too many times and the, most likely butter-soft, material clung to his body in all the right places.

Letting his imagination run away with him, Stiles returned from a brief fantasy to a sniffing sound, quick intakes of air through the nose. It took him a minute to realise it was Derek.

"Does something smell?" asked Stiles around an embarrassingly loud forced laugh.

Derek turned around, eying him from head to foot. "What is it you think you have?"

"Me, personally? Nothing. I've always had a pretty good immune system. Oranges. I eat a lot of oranges."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Not you, idiot. Your house."

"Aren't you supposed to be providing excellent customer service? Because I don't see excellent customer service. I see hostility. And—" The look Derek was giving him stopped him in his tracks. Stiles waved a hand and got to the point. "They're these weird gremlin things with hair kind of like Miley Cyrus'? Only, you know, greyer and, uh, there's less twerking involved." A vivid mental image of a twerking gremlin plumed at the forefront of Stiles' mind.

Derek pulled his face.

"And before you say anything, it's not rats. They don't look like rats," clarified Stiles.

"No, it isn't rats."

"Exactly—wait, what? How do you know?"

"Because I don't smell rats," he said as he began to walk upstairs, sniffing as he went.

Stiles followed close behind him. "Smell? You're joking right? No one can smell rats."

They came to a halt at Stile's bedroom. The door was open and his ruined boxers were still there, sitting at their feet.

"See?" said Stiles, whipping them up from the floor and shaking them at Derek. "Something is eating my clothes. My dresser has turned into a _smorgasbord_," he exclaimed then realised he was shaking his boxers in Derek's face. He rolled his lips into his mouth, flushing pink, and threw the pair over his shoulder.

Not remotely affected, Derek stepped into his room looking around and doing his sniffing thing again. His eyes landed on Stiles' unmade bed. "I think I know what the problem is."

"Uh, you do?"

"Yeah. You need to get laid," said Derek bluntly.

Stiles waited a few beats for the punch line. Or for the 70's porno music to kick in and Derek to start stripping off. Unfortunately, neither happened. "Have—have I just walked into a porn movie?" said Stiles. "Did you just tell me to get laid?"

"Your house isn't infested with gremlins. Your _room _is infested with _trolls_."

"Trolls," repeated Stiles sceptically.

"Yes. Trolls. They're attracted to tension and frustration. That's why they're eating your underwear because you're sexually frustrated."

Stiles squinted at him. "Trolls?!"

"You were ready to believe in gremlins why not trolls?"

"Because _gremlins_ sound a lot less crazy than trolls urging me to get laid!" said Stiles, flailing. "And if you're right and it _is _sexual tension that's making these things appear then why am I the only one with a problem? About half of my school isn't getting laid."

Derek shrugged. "You must be supernatural or able to see supernatural things. And not everyone has them because it takes awhile to build up this much frustration. So, my diagnosis? Get a girlfriend."

Before Stiles could react Derek was already leaving, that fine ass shaking in his overalls.

"Or a boyfriend," piped up Stiles, throwing himself out of his bedroom and following him down the stairs.

Derek opened the front door and paused. "You're bisexual?"

"Y-yeah," said Stiles. His cheeks heated. "Why?"

"I guess I can't see you bending over for anyone, that's all."

Derek stepped outside and Stiles grabbed the door before it closed, stamping on his own toe in his haste to reach it. Cursing he staggered, clutched the frame and leaned out, saying far too loudly, "I'd bend over for you!"

_What?_

_WHAT?!_

When Derek turned around, eyebrows raised, Stiles began to stutter. "I-I mean, I'd. . .someone of your. . .someone. . .I—I. . ."

For the first time Derek smiled but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was wolfish; wide with lots of white teeth. It faded just a fraction when he said, "How old are you?"

Stiles tried to lean against the doorframe, slipped and settled for crossing his arms. "Se—Nineteen.

Derek snorted.

"Eighteen?" said Stiles.

Derek folded his arms across his broad chest.

"Okay fine! I'm seventeen."

Disappointment sank through him when Derek nodded and looked like he was about to leave, but he surprised Stiles by staying and asking, "When's your birthday?"

"April? April 8th?" answered Stiles, perking up like a dog after a treat._ What?_ At least he was aware of how pathetic he was.

"Two months?"

"Yeah."

The wolfish grin returned, and Stiles' tummy swooped. "Maybe I'll come over and fix your problem then."

"By fix you mean—"

"See you later Stiles."

"Wait, wait, wait!"

So what if Stiles chased after Derek in his truck? He needed a damn good lay and he had the gremlins to prove it.


End file.
